


Notes from the Gallery

by aegle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Gen, New Year's Eve, POV Multiple, Romantic Gestures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 06:51:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7608064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aegle/pseuds/aegle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New Year's Eve, 1995. A party is underway at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notes from the Gallery

**Author's Note:**

> Companion piece to [A Slow and Stopping Curve](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7482393). Features profanity, alcohol consumption, and Sirius Black's unrestrained thoughts.

He doesn't let people near him, typically, but she's laughing and whispering something in his ear, and all I can wonder is: have they slept together yet? They look good together. She's got that reckless, waifish thing about her. Big, dark eyes and lovely features, and I'd have guessed pretty easily that he'd fall for her, but I remembered her as a kid, not as a woman. His face—Christ, his face—the day he met her. She approached us after that first meeting, and I gave her a peck on the cheek and asked after her mum, and she smiled at him with those little white teeth and extended her hand. Even if he didn't know, at the time, that it'd turn into something, I could see it in the way he looked at her. He shuts up when he fancies someone, and I reckon he actually avoided her for a bit. 

They've been in the corner chatting all night, and every once in a while I'll look over and she'll have her hand on his arm, or he'll be turned toward her like she's the only person in the room. Not that I blame him. To have a woman looking at him like that, knowing he's a werewolf and not giving the smallest bit of a fuck, wearing a dress that is clearly meant for him. He's terrible when it comes to women, or he used to be, which was always a laugh at school because he's a decent looking bloke, and he'd never notice a girl until she was practically taking her top off at the breakfast table. Even Pete was less oblivious in that department, which was saying a lot, as the only girls who ever went for him were the homely sort—nice girls, they were, but not really the type to broadcast their interest. We'd catch him with his hand up someone's shirt on the regular, but Remus, he kept his business his own business. I'm fairly sure he got with that Ravenclaw, Sally, but he kept mum about it. That's one thing I'll say for him, he doesn't air his laundry. 

God, I'm pissed. This rug is a genuine nightmare. I ought to do something about it. Hestia's already gone and spilled an entire glass of burgundy in the corner, and I told her to leave it. Can't do much harm, when the place is falling apart, as is.

This is interesting, though. Diggle's got control of the music, and he's completely wrecked, I reckon, because he's only a little bloke and he's been toting that bottle of champagne around on his own, red-faced and giggling. He's put on some god-awful jazz standard shite, the sort Molly Weasley would like, surely. She's clapped her hands together and started gushing about Arthur, who's going to be released soon, we all think, and I watch her boy take a nip from a flask Dung's offered him while she's distracted. Ron sputters. Dung could run on pure ethanol, given the opportunity, and whatever he's got in there isn't likely to be quality. When Hermione looks over at him, he's still making a face, and she begins fretting and asking him what's wrong, and all the while Dung is laughing to himself. 

"We're having a party, Diggle," I say, loudly, "not a bleeding anniversary dinner." 

Molly looks put out and Diggle's having a little fit, but his reactions kill me, and I can't help but agitate him every so often because he's so easy to rile. Poor Molly. I almost feel bad, but Arthur's been stable for days. He'll be home soon enough, and they can listen to their wireless and reminisce—or whatever it is they do—to their hearts' content. But not here. 

"It's very sweet," Emmeline says, because she hates conflict, but also because she's three sheets to the wind and working on a fourth. Kingsley shrugs. 

"Fuck it, I'm overruled, apparently," I say, and Harry laughs, which makes the lecture I'll receive from an irate Molly Weasley about 'the children' and 'language' and 'setting an example' endurable, though tonight she seems content to merely glare at me disapprovingly and accept Dedalus Diggle's offer of a dance. He's shorter than she is and far less sober, but she seems in good enough spirits, surrounded by friends and family, and appears amused by his enthusiasm. 

"Don't let him bother you, my dear," Diggle is saying, "he's simply the sort to turn angry when he's had a bit too much," and I have a laugh and look back to Moony and Tonks, who are standing there observing the whole display. Emmeline and Kingsley have coupled up for the song, and Dung wiggles his eyebrows at Hermione, who promptly walks away. 

This is perhaps the most fascinating development of the evening, because old Moony is going to have to do something here, and right now, they both look like nervous teenagers who've been cast in a play which requires _kissing_ and neither wants to be the first one to lean in. Welcome back to the party, lovebirds. It has caught up with you. 

Tonks takes both their glasses and puts them on the mantle, which doesn't surprise me because she's the braver of the two of them, even though he was in bloody Gryffindor, and I realize they've absolutely not slept together, not at this point, because you can cut the tension between them with a knife, but of course, no one's paying attention, they're dancing and happy to be celebrating the New Year, even if the music is crap and the world is on fire. 

It's rather amazing to watch, really, because their facial expressions transition from 'what a laugh, eh?' to mentally undressing one another, and I'm fairly sure if they don't make a real move soon, Moony's going to die from the worst case of blue balls in British history. 

Anyone who bothered to look would see she's in love with him (except him), so I can only imagine what it's like, her face that close to his, his neuroses no doubt ringing the alarm bells. He keeps glancing at her lips, but she doesn't see, because she's lowered her eyes, and I'm legimately worried now, because if she's nervous, there's no hope for this. Waiting on him to make the first move is not her best plan of attack, but she's gotten him this far—gotten him to _dance_ —which is saying quite a lot for her. 

The song's closing and she's blushing a bit, and I catch her eyes as she passes my chair, but she's got a look that says, "Don't speak to me," and so I let it go, clearing my throat and rising out of the arm chair. The floor's tilted at an odd angle, but I blink and it passes. I join Remus. 

"Nice party, very fun, glad all could make it," I say, and he doesn't even smile. I try again. "Tonks looks nice tonight," I say. 

"Shut up, Pads," he says, and finishes his drink.

——

I really ought to have gone to Gwen's. Not that I don't like these people, but the event of the season, it is not. And Jasper's off to Edinburgh to spend the New Year with his mates, which is rather a shit thing to do, because he's not invited me, not even considered it, really. "You'll have loads to do in London, Hestia." Right.

Emmeline told me my dress was nice, but she's always so terribly pleasant, I doubt anything is ever anything but 'nice' to her. Tonks looks lovely, depressingly so (wretched of me, I know), but she always manages to look sexy. I suppose if you're a Metamorphmagus you can do that sort of thing quite easily. I wonder if she ever changes for men. You know, in bed. I really ought to go home. I'm going to have a stellar hangover in the morning. 

Remus walks by me on his way toward the kitchen and asks if I'm all right, and of course I say I am, because the last thing on earth I want is to admit that I'm brilliantly smashed, and cross with my boyfriend, and that I think he's got lovely eyes. I'm fairly certain Tonks has a thing for him, and I do like her. She's a good listener and humors me when I've let loose at the pub, and I don't want to go carrying on with her...crush? Whatever he is. He's a werewolf, anyway, and that seems frightfully high-maintenance. He has a nice arse, though, and I'm sure she wouldn't be bothered by a harmless glance as he's walking away. 

I am going to go home and sleep for ten years.

——

Trouble with Lupin is that he's always got that look on his face like you've just said the stupidest thing in the world and he's not about to tell you, like he'd rather you figure it out, and I'm explainin' this to him so's he can understand, but I don't think he does, and I'm not sure he's paying that much attention.

"What are you planning to do with an entire crate of Doxy venom, though?" he asks. 

"Re-distribute it, of course." 

"You're a terrible thief, Dung," says Nymphadora Tonks over the rim of her wine glass. "Those bottles have tracking labels. If a great lot of them go missing, they're easily identifiable as stolen goods. You'd better hope no one takes an interest in inspecting them." 

"Well I'm not selling 'em all as a set, am I? They're not collectibles," I say, and she snorts. She's tarted up, a bit too much for my tastes, with all that bleedin' black liner they like these days, but she's a pretty thing and I'd have no complaints if she wanted to beckon me into a dark corner. Sirius knocked the fuckin' chair out from under me when I told him, and my arse is still sore from it. 

"Look, I do a fucking lot for this operation," I tell her, and she glances to Lupin, who smiles into his scotch or whatever he's got in that glass, and while they're busy having a secretive little laugh, Sirius sidles up and takes the flask from my hand. 

"What's in here, Dung? Wood alcohol?" He takes a swig and frowns, handing it back. "Christ, that's foul."

"Foul? That's the finest new make," I say, and he cocks an eyebrow. 

"Fucking moonshine is what it is," he says. "Stay away from the Weasley kid with that or I'll tell Molly you've given it him when he's puking his guts out on the carpet."

"Old enough to be in a war, not old enough to drink, is it, Mum?" I ask, and Sirius raises his shoulders in a shrug. 

"Would you say Molly is over-protective, Moony?" he asks, and Lupin doesn't say a word, just lifts his eyebrows. Sirius laughs. 

"Dung's been telling us about his big ambitions to turn a profit from some recently acquired goods," Tonks says, eyes flashing, as though she's in a snit over something. 

"I keep telling him not to go through my unmentionables," Sirius says. He looks at me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "I'm in a generous mood, Dung. Why don't I direct you to something slightly less lethal?" 

For a second, I think he's talking about Tonks, but then I realize he means the alcohol, and I fall into an easy grin. "What do you have?" I ask him, and I swear he winks at her before answering. I think he must fancy her, or something, even though they're cousins. Who am I to judge, though? I reckon with a family like theirs, it'd be pretty normal if they got together.

——

"Oh, hullo," I say, noticing that Tonks is in the kitchen. She's sat on the counter, twirling an empty glass around in her hands. She's been frowning, but she flashes me a grin when she hears me.

"Wotcher," she says. "Happy New Year." 

"You're not celebrating?" 

"I think I've done a bit too much celebrating," she says, laughing to herself. She doesn't look drunk, though. She looks kind of down, actually, and I wonder if the holidays do that to her. I've heard some people get pretty depressed around Christmastime. 

"I came in here to get some water for Fred and George," I say. "They've been passing a bottle of firewhiskey all night and Mum's definitely starting to catch on." 

"Oh, here, I'll move," she says, hopping down from the counter. She's got her shoes off, and she wobbles a bit putting them back on. She looks really nice tonight, and her hair's longer than she usually wears it. I grab two glasses from the cupboard and look at her. "You know, usually when my friends are having boy problems, they run into the loo and stay there." 

"This isn't a loo?" she asks, glancing around, and I laugh. She's smiling, but she looks slightly embarrassed, so I guess I'm right. I wonder if it's someone here, or if she's gotten stood up for a date, and then there's a lot of clattering on the stairs and the door swings open, Fred in its wake. 

"Ginny, did you get lost?" He giggles, clearly drunk, and I reckon Mum must know by now, and she's probably planning on making an extra loud breakfast. 

Tonks raises a hand to her mouth, laughing, and pulls out a chair. Fred falls into it. 

"Where's—"

"Maybe _he's_ lost," Fred says. He looks at Tonks and says, "Or maybe Mum got him. Will you find him?"

——

It's nearly three in the morning, and Sirius won't be moved from the writing desk in the parlor, just keeps groaning and swatting at me, so I've left him. He'll wake up with parchment stuck to his face eventually, complaining that he's been abandoned in a miserable state. They've filtered out now, even Dedalus, who seemed surprised that anyone should want to call it a night so early. I'm not sure when she made her exit; it must have been some time ago.

I should have done things differently. Talked to her after the dancing situation, for a start. Pads was staggering drunk, and I invested too much time preventing him from arguing with Molly Weasley. 

I nearly kissed her earlier, when we were crossing paths, and now I can't think for wanting her. Nymphadora Tonks, what are you up to, I wonder? Sleeping better than I am, surely.

This entire night has been such an earnest tribute to Should and Nearly that it's almost laughable. If I had done it, I'd at least know whether or not I've been misreading her. Misreading everything. Of course, when I glance up she's in the doorway, as if summoned, and I forget, instantly, the entirety of the English language.

My mind's died. It's grasping at little wisps of nothing, and I imagine she's probably very aware that I'm staring at her and force myself to say something. 

"I thought you'd gone." 

Her shoulders go up in a little shrug and she looks both sheepish and sweet, and here it is, finally, the revelation I've been staggering toward for months now: love. God help me. 


End file.
